


A Little Sugar

by hit_the_books



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bikers, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester First Time Having Sex, Demons, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Motorcycles, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 02, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed, Warlocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24699250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books/pseuds/hit_the_books
Summary: People are dying bloodily in Red Bluff, California, and no one knows how. The only leads? A strange substance that may or may not be a narcotic and hints of sulfur, and the rumor that a local outlaw motorcycle gang may be involved.Heading out to Northern California on the hunt, Dean and Sam are going to discover feelings they've been hiding from each other for a long time.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 27
Kudos: 178
Collections: Wincest Reverse Bang





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my fic for this year's Wincest Reverse Bang. It's based on an amazing piece of art by [emberthrace](https://emberthrace.livejournal.com/2398.html). Thanks to [Hermit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9) for beta reading the story for me.
> 
> If you have ever watched Sons of Anarchy and think to yourself there's some similarities--yeah, that's intentional. When I saw emberthrace's art, I was part way through watching the show for the first time and realized that the piece was perfect for setting up a story involving a biker gang.
> 
> This story is set in season 2 of Supernatural, after their first run in with Gordon, but before the "zombie" case.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it.

Hand methodically working the sugar brown powder with a shaving blade—criss-cross-criss—Jane sorts out the crystalline substance for a hit. Lining up three lines of the stuff, Jane leans down towards his teak coffee table, rolled twenty in hand, and snorts up line number one.

His dealer said that one line was enough to feel all sorts of good and after a few seconds of kneeling beside the low coffee table, Jane definitely feels good. Chubbing up, he palms his cock through his pants and leans down for a second hit.

A second hit would make you feel divine, according to his dealer. Jane snorts up the second line and falls on his ass, as his skin feels like it’s being brushed over by a thousand feathers at once, all tantalizing and hot as fuck.

Sweat beads Jane’s forehead as he leans forward for a third hit. Hand now trapped inside his boxers, working himself fast and stupid, Jane snorts a third line of the stuff that doesn’t even have a street name yet. The dealer didn’t say what three hits would do, but Jane had figured that if there were any adverse effects after such a small amount, his guy would have said something.

Leaning his back against the couch behind him, Jane enjoys the building pleasure that’s been racing through him since the first line. Sweat covers him all over, making his clothes stick fast to him.

He’s on the cusp of spilling over his hand and then his eyes fly open and he screams. The first cut digs across his chest, no weapon or attacker in sight, blood blooming easy and drenching him and his blue t-shirt. Jane struggles to his feet and knocks into the coffee table, sending it flying as he scrambles away, pleasure completely replaced by pain as more and more cuts and slashes open up across his body.

Stumbling over a pillow, Jane crashes into a door frame and shakily climbs back to his feet. A cut lands across his forehead and he tries to scream, but he can’t, his throat far too taut and raw. He tries to get to the front door, to try and get help from his neighbors.

Jane grabs the front door handle and with a blood slicked hand, tries to pull back the chain. Out of his periphery, he sees a smoky shadow loom impossibly tall, but when he looks towards it, wiping away blood from his eyes with a bloody hand—there’s nothing there. He struggles with the door, but can’t get the purchase necessary to open it.

A crown of hot stabbing pain adds to the slashes and cuts, like a giant claw has tried to pick him up by the top of his head. Impossibly, he’s thrown through the air head first and smashes into a bookcase back in his living room. He hears his bones crack and feels them break.

Jane’s hardly breathing now, his life pain and nothing else. He tries to lift his head to see what’s going on, but his neck isn’t working. And then he’s yanked from the floor and pulled down. Down, down, down as impossible heat and sulfur welcome him in a godless embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean taps his right foot against the motel floor. “Yeah, okay, okay, Terrance, we’ll look into it, but we need your guys to come through too. We need convincing levels of affiliation… Yes, nomads are fine. We’re not complete strangers to this life… Uh-huh, well, like I said, get some favors paid up, you said about Harv, and we can be there in… A few days.”

Sam offers a raised eyebrow and Dean shakes his head.

“Look, we’ll figure out our rides ourselves… Yes, we know how to ride damn motorcycles! Look, you said it yourself—there’s no point us coming in as law enforcement on this job. No way the club is going to talk to anyone but other MC members… Exactly.” Dean rolls his eyes and nods along as Terrance continues to talk about the case.

“Sorry about your father,” Terrance offers as the call comes to its conclusion, _Fucking finally!_ Dean thinks to himself, but the mention of his Dad makes his throat tighten.

Keeping his expression nothing but the harangued hunter that he’s been for the past thirty minutes, Dean nods. “Thanks. Uh, we’ll update you once we’re in Red Bluff.”

Dean hangs up without a further word and sets his cell down on the motel room table, the cheap red formica of the surface having seen better days. It’s chipped and pitted, and Dean worries a finger against one particular hole as he gathers his thoughts together. He picks up the styrofoam cup of coffee Sam had brought in three minutes earlier and finally starts to poke at the brown paper bag of breakfast something, finding a tan styrofoam box inside that smells like it’s got eggs, sausage and bacon inside.

“Terrance?” Sam finally asks, opening up his own breakfast bag. He passes Dean a set of plastic cutlery.

“Old friend of Dad’s,” Dean explains. “Got us a case. Red Bluff in North Cali.”

“What kind of case?”

“Not sure yet. But we got a dead guy. House locked from the inside. A lot of blood. A lot of wounds that couldn’t be self-inflicted. Drugs on the scene.” Dean shrugs and opens his box of food, spearing a slice of crispy bacon on his fork.

“And the motorcycle club?” Sam pushes, opening up his breakfast, which has nothing green for once.

“Guy had connections. Last to see him. Also, probably got the drugs from them. Plus, Terrance has a pretty good hunch that the MC is involved somehow.” Dean stuffs the bacon in his mouth and chews obnoxiously on purpose then swallows. “And there was the smell of sulfur on the scene.”

“Fantastic. So where are we getting motorcycles from?” Sam picks at his food. There’s still some cuts on his face from where Gordon helped rough him up.

Dean glares at Sam and Sam rolls his eyes, then stuffs some scrambled egg in his mouth.

“I figured Bobby might be able to hook us up. I’ll give him a call once we’re done with our food.”

They continue breakfast in silence, but Dean’s mind is whirring with thoughts as he tries to remember what Terrance’s connection to John is. He’s gonna need to skim through John’s journal again or get Sam to have a look.

***

A quick check of John’s old hunting journal links Terrance to a case back when Sam was starting to ask all sorts of questions about being left in the care of Dean for long stretches of time. Sam doesn’t remember the hunt in particular, it was one of John’s easier hunts—a salt and burn. Nothing that Sam or Dean would have paid much attention to before while reading the journal’s many pages previously.

Sam doesn’t like the sound of the hunt, if he’s being perfectly honest with himself. There’s signs of demonic activity _and_ they’re going to have to deal with what amounts to a gang that’s involved in illegal activities— _keeping our noses clear of the law is hard enough as it is_ , Sam thinks. The irony of hunting is that pretending to be the law is usually easier than pretending to be lawless.

As soon as the people you’re constantly dealing with spend most of their life looking over their shoulder, it complicates things. Something that Sam is acutely aware of but he’s unsure, as the Impala rolls into Bobby’s scrap yard, if Dean remembers.

“You think Bobby really has good wheels for us?” Sam asks as he pushes a hand through his hair. It’s sticky in the car, even with the windows open, the hot August sun beating down on them.

“He said he does.” Dean shrugs and pulls the Impala up. Putting the car in park he looks over to Sam, eyes always lingering a little longer than is necessary, thinking Sam doesn’t notice, before he looks away to the front of Bobby’s house. “C’mon.”

They peel themselves out of the car and Sam wonders for a moment if Bobby’s got any cold soda or beer in the house. He kind of wishes he could just peel off his shirts and lie down in the shade for a bit. Forget this hunt. Forget everything that’s happened so far this year and just relax.

“You boys got here fast,” Bobby hails from the stoop, opening the door as they approach.

“Yeah, yeah. Please say you have got something cold in that refrigerator for us,” Dean greets fondly.

“I thought you were here for a case. Not my beer!” Bobby steps back and lets them in.

Once they have beers in hand, Bobby starts talking about the few bikes he has that are working. Ones he’s come by in trades. They’re already in good condition, apparently, having been items he’d been trying to sell for some time.

“Now, you boys know how to ride, right?” Bobby asks after a long pull of his beer.

Sam shifts awkwardly in his seat. He knows how to ride a motorcycle, but the idea of riding a motorcycle from South Dakota to California does not leave him feeling particularly thrilled.

“We’ll take them on the back of a flatbed most of-” Dean starts.

“You’ll be riding them,” Bobby states. “Need the MC to think you’re the real deal.”

Sam strokes his fingers down the neck of his beer bottle, playing with the condensation that covers the glassy surface. “We’ll need to be careful then… take roads where we’re less likely to be hassled by the cops. Wearing a cut normally gets a few eyeballs.”

“And how did you become Mister Biker Gang?” Dean asks, voice incredulous.

“We looked at them one week in Psych 216… Public Policy and Social Psychology,” Sam answers.

“Nerd.” Dean shakes his head.

Sam pushes his beer bottle away. “I think we can take a flatbed until we’re on the Nevada border. No need to ride them all the way. We cover the bikes up, strap ‘em down. Then get all MC when we’re ready to head into Northern Cali.”

“Hmpf, fine. But you better make sure you cross the state line on those hogs, or no one will buy what yer’ sellin’.” Bobby gets to his feet and starts towards the back door. “So, you wanna see the bikes or are you both just gonna sit there drinking all my beer?”

Around the side of the house, before the piles of crushed cars and rotting wrecks, two motorcycles stand proud on their stands. Sam has no idea what they are—he’s never been a “things that go vroom” kind of guy—but he can see the beauty in the design work of the two bikes.

“This here’s a Shadow Phantom—Honda—new. And this here’s a classic Fat Boy—Harley, obviously,” Bobby explains. Sam catches the main brand names, he’s not a complete cretin when it comes to vehicles.

Dean walks around the bikes, a mechanic’s appreciation appraising them as Sam just stands to the side watching. There’s a little bit of swagger in Dean’s walk, his hips swinging a little and Sam finds himself not quite able to draw his gaze away. Finally, with conscious effort, he does.

“So?” Bobby presses. “They alright, princesses?”

“They’re mint, Bobby,” Dean grins. “I mean, they got nothing on Baby, but for motorcycles, they’re not bad.”

Bobby mutters “idjits” under his breath and makes his way back to the house, leaving them with the bikes. Sam just stares at the bikes, unsure if he should call dibs. He feels like Dean will probably want the more classic ride, but he can’t be sure if his brother’s taste in cars extends to motorcycles. Sam watches Dean get closer to the bikes and then start tracing a hand over the leather of the Fat Boy’s saddle.

Dean snaps his hand back with a hiss. “Damn, the sun’s made that saddle hot.”

“Mmm, definitely don’t wanna end up cooking your balls riding one of these,” Sam smirks.

Dean pouts at Sam, but then continues to ogle the bike.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean watches Sam hack into the MC’s website for ordering all its MC patches and helps him pick out the ones Terrance said they’d need to order. Beside them on Bobby’s kitchen table are scanned copies of the police files of the vic’s death. Terrance managed to email them to Bobby and Bobby’s laser printer just about coped with the copious number of pages.

The black and white copies of the crime scene photos and the vic don’t do anything to hide the level of brutality of what went down. After their last encounter with Yellow Eyes, Dean isn’t actually feeling that keen on going after a possible demon case—but he can’t see anyone else being able to handle this mess if it is indeed demons.

It’ll take them over a day to get to Red Bluff once they’re ready. Dean’s not looking forward to such a long drive and certainly one without Baby for the last bit. But he knows Bobby’ll take good care of the car. _Not like I have_ , Dean thinks for a brief moment of regret and anger that he shoves out of the way as he listens to Sam about the last patch they need.

“Yeah, and so that one too... need one that actually says ‘nomad’,” Sam explains. The Reapers (and that makes Dean laugh, considering what happened with the faith healing case) have lots of nomads, preferring to have a handful of chapters dotted about the continental US—according to Sam’s earlier spiel after reading up on the very unlawful club over the past hour. They are banking on the fact that the mother chapter of The Reapers is all the way in Boston, on the other side of the country.

“What’s the deal with this nomad thing?” Dean asks.

Sam picks up his third beer of the afternoon—not that Dean’s counting and doing that worried brother thing.

“It means that you don’t have a specific chapter that you’re tied to. You got no voting rights on club matters. But you can turn up at the other chapters if you’re on the road. Though you tend to be affiliated with a particular one. Sometimes you might be called in to help with club matters… And you pay dues,” Sam explains.

“How do you know so much about this?” Dean pokes Sam in the side, like he’s teasing him.

“Psych 216… Okay, so my professor was seriously into the full ins and out of outlaw culture,” Sam explains, voice a little dreamy, wriggling away from Dean’s finger. “Professor Shane was working on a research project about US outlaw motorcycle clubs,” Sam goes on further, voice going just a touch higher with each word out of his mouth.

Dean isn’t immediately sure what emotion steals over him as he listens to Sam talk about his college class and professor.

“Anyway, uh Shane and Jess and I went to like this club meetup one weekend, like a convention-fair thing, where there were regular MCs and some outlaws,” Sam babbles on, “And yeah, it was nice.”

Envy is what Dean feels. He studies Sam’s face and sees a pinkness there that has nothing to do with the summer heat. Dean could just say his brain’s on the fritz due to the heat, but he knows it’s not. It’s something that keeps happening, but he always chooses to ignore. He shakes his head and then nods at Sam.

“Okay, the patches are ordered. Should be at Dad’s old P.O. box in Nevada before we get there,” Sam declares, pushing back from the table and standing. He stretches and Dean watches as Sam’s shirts ride up. “You got the cutoffs we’re going to sew these onto?”

“Yeah, found some in town. C’mon,” Dean manages to say, throat thick with a mixture of emotions and confusion. He gets up and leads Sam through Bobby’s house, heading upstairs to where he’d stashed the denim cutoffs.

The bedroom is cramped with two single beds, and has a lot of memories for Dean. Happier ones where he and Sam were safe staying with Bobby, rather than being out on the road as kids. Dean steps over to the nearest bed and holds up the cutoff he intended for Sam. It’s like a huge denim waist jacket, minus the belt on the back and the silk, with no sleeves. Both cutoffs are a light blue denim, bordering on acid washed.

“Here.” Dean hands over the cutoff to Sam.

Sam wastes no time in slipping into it and feeling it out. Rolling his shoulders and feeling what it’s like to move in. He flexes and Dean pointedly looks away as he tries on his own cutoff.

“Looks like the real deal,” Sam says.

“With the patches, it’ll be killer,” Dean points out as he mentally makes a note to make sure that they’ve got the right needles and thread to add the patches when they pick them up en-route.

“Definitely,” Sam agrees, voice going a little soft.

Dean looks back over at Sam to find him staring for the briefest second before quickly looking away.

The two of them spend the rest of the day, as the heat starts to cool with evening setting in, going through the contents of the Impala’s trunk, trying to figure out what they should take and what they shouldn’t. Dean tries to make a convincing case for bringing the grenade launcher with them, but Sam manages to talk him down.

Instead there’s a good number of shotguns, handguns, iron and salt rounds for both. Plus chalk for drawing Devil’s Traps, and a buttload of salt. Dean hides some back up supplies in the little nooks that Bobby has made in the flatbed.

Dean can’t help but feel a bit weird on going on another hunt without Baby, but he knows it’s for the best.

Shutting up the trunk and doing one final sweep of the front for anything they might need, Dean spots the helmets that Bobby’s set aside for them, waiting on the back stoop of the house. They’re plain black, hard and have no visors.

“We’ll need to take some shades and glasses with us,” Sam says, seeing where Dean’s looking. “Else it could be pretty uncomfortable while riding.”

***

It’s past two in the morning. Sam knows this because he checked his watch two minutes earlier, squinting in the low gloom of the moonlight filtering through the blinds. Dean’s lightly snoring on the bed beside the door, but Sam can’t sleep. There’s no window unit or fan in the room, just the open window and the endless heat.

And there’s the memories and thoughts that keep tripping around the inside of Sam’s head. The fear that he’ll fall asleep and the visions will come back. Or the fear that he’ll dream of Jess and then it’ll morph to her burning on the ceiling again. Or morph to that cabin and Yellow Eyes making a meal of Dean and Dad... or the crash after and the demon that was ready to tear their throats out for the Colt.

Sam’s been doing his best to keep his shit together since the crash and John dying, but it’s tough. Tough because he almost lost Dean and fuck—tears start to creep down Sam’s cheeks. He sniffs and brings a hand up from under the sheets to wipe his eyes.

_He’s right there. Everything’s fine. Get some sleep. C’mon_ , Sam tries to reassure himself. With effort, he slowly calms his thoughts and steadies his breathing. It takes another half hour before he’s finally joining Dean in sleep.

For once he doesn’t dream.

“Up and at them, Sasquatch!” Dean calls and all too soon it’s morning and time for them to grab breakfast and hit the road.

Sam’s downstairs soon enough. He eagerly grabs at the plate of eggs and bacon Bobby pushes at him in the kitchen. He eats fast, drinking his coffee as he goes. It’s a rush to be on the road before nine and on their way. The drive’s going to be long to just get to the outskirts of Nevada.

Thirty minutes into his morning and Sam’s ready to go, standing beside the passenger side of the flatbed truck,the heat of the day is already building. The bikes are stowed in the back, tarps pulled snug over them, ropes and cords keeping them upright and in place. Bobby’s just having a last minute word with Dean about something on the stoop, but soon enough, Dean’s walking towards the truck and so Sam gets inside.

“Find some music, will ya?” Dean asks as he gets the truck going.

Sam’s a little surprised at this, but this not being the Impala, there’s no tapes for them to play—Dean wouldn’t risk his “collection” on someone else’s ride.

It takes a while, but Sam eventually hits on a station playing classic rock alongside its talk radio show. So Sam leaves it on that. As Dean drives them along the I-90 West, Sam pulls out the case file that Terrance sent over and starts back to re-read everything, making sure they didn’t miss a single detail.

Once he’s sure again it’s probably a demon, he pulls out the printouts he made on The Reapers and gets to studying them closely. Whatever the MC is, it’s messy, but Sam figures that comes with the territory when you’re a bunch of outlaws.


	4. Chapter 4

“Your turn, Sammy!” Dean bellows, the truck creaking as he jumps down from the cabin and heads towards the restrooms.

Sam startles from his doze and creaks his neck. He has no idea where they are or how long he’s been out for. He at least managed to stow all the paperwork before nodding off. The sun’s low in the sky now and the rest stop they’re stopped at is packed with families having a quick meal before continuing on their journeys. The pine trees surrounding the stop are tall and thick.

Sam climbs out of the cabin and waits for Dean. A few pairs of eyes glance over at him and then hurriedly turn away—something that Sam’s used to though it hurts a little. The bruises from Gordon’s beating have almost faded, but the cuts are still healing on his lips and eyebrows. Dean finally returns and Sam heads off to take care of business.

The restrooms at the stop are the usual levels of not-great he’s accustomed to in places like this. But he finishes up and washes his hands fine. As he’s heading out, he hears a loud conversation taking place, Dean’s voice raised a little higher than normal. Sam hurries back over to the truck.

“Can’t I take a peek?” asks some young teenage boy who’s a head shorter than Dean.

“Sorry kid, but me and my brother and I need to get moving.” Dean looks over at Sam and waves at him.

Holding his hand up in return, Sam strides over, and the boy’s eyes just go even wider once Sam joins Dean.

“But those are bikes, right?”

Sam nods along with Dean.

“Awesome, okay. Well…” The boy turns and stomps off back towards his family.

“Okay,” Sam says as he heads round to the driver’s side.

“Bikes are cool,” Dean calls as he climbs in on the passenger side.

In the cabin, Dean passes over a can of soda and a protein bar from their last gas station stop. Sam buckles himself in and opens the soda as he gets the truck moving again. It feels weird to be driving something as large as the flatbed, but he manages as he takes on his first shift driving for this journey.

Darkening highways soon blur into each other and it’s not long until they’ve been on the road for 10 hours. As Sam drives and Dean messes with the radio, trying to find some good tunes again, Sam finds himself wishing for a hot shower more than anything else as the breeze from his open window plays with his hair.

Something by Creedence Clearwater Revival starts playing on the radio and Dean stops messing with the dial. Not long after the track finishes, Dean’s asleep and it’s just Sam and the road.

***

A lack of movement pulls Dean out of his sleep and he sits up a little straighter in his seat. Glancing around the truck and their surroundings, Dean tries to figure out where they are. They’d stopped once since Sam had taken over driving duty, but now as Dean tries to get his bearings and sees a sign, he sees that they’ve reached one of their last stops before Red bluff.

“Carlin, Nevada,” Sam announces without prompting. “Dad’s P.O. box is here. We’ll sort out the cutouts here and stow the truck. But after we get a few more hours sleep, a shower and some food.”

Dean nods and yawns. “I’ll book the room.”

Sam sighs, but nods in agreement as Dean climbs out the truck and heads towards the front desk. He looks out at the flatbed truck while he gets their room—only one bed available, but Dean can’t bring himself to care—and figures they need to take it in turns to sleep. The motel is looking less than savory and one of them needs to be awake if they’re going to make sure no one runs off with the bikes. They’re chained and padlocked down, but that just buys Sam and Dean time if someone tries something.

Still, Carlin is a small town, they might not get that much trouble.

With the room paid for and key in hand, Dean heads over to Sam as he finishes putting a lock on the truck’s steering wheel, and they take their bags to their room. It’s something resembling clean on the inside, the decor nothing to write home about. Dean sets the bags down and starts looking for the key he’ll need for John’s old P.O. Box.

“The P.O. Box is just down the street. I’ll get the patches and then take first watch,” Dean says as he finds the key.

Sam says nothing. He’s barely in the room, bags still on his shoulders. “One bed, huh?”

“Yeah, but we’re sleeping in shifts so it doesn’t matter. And you get to sleep first, as soon as I’m back.”

Sam nods, sharply, and finally sets his bags down. “Okay.”

Dean heads off down the street and towards the post office. The post boxes area is open 24 hours, so he slips in and sets about locating John’s box. The rapid delivery they’d paid for means there’s a fresh envelope waiting for him when he unlocks John’s old box.

It’s not until Dean’s walking back to the motel that he realizes Sam seemed kind of irked when he saw that the room only had one bed. Dean swallows and tries not to look too deeply into it.

Back at their room, Dean finds the sewing stuff Sam brought with them and sets about sorting out the patches. Sam showers while Dean works and wishes that they could use a sewing machine, but thankful they have sharp enough needles to push through denim as it is. Seeing as how they had to make clothes last when they were kids and with little money to even pick up stuff from thrift stores or yard sales, and sewing each other up for a lifetime—Dean’s not bad at hand sewing.

Dean’s added the nomad patches to both cutoffs by the time Sam gets out of the shower. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants that are losing a battle to stay on Sammy’s narrow hips. Dean’s thankful that he needs to keep his eyes on his work so he doesn’t stab his fingers.

“Wake me in a few hours,” Sam says as he finally settles down under the sheet on the bed.

Dean nods and continues to work, ears trained for any sign of someone trying to make off with their rides.

***

It’s past midday, more than 24 hours since they left Bobby’s, when they get back on the road, only this time they’re setting up on their motorcycles. Bobby’s truck is stowed safely at a lot a couple of towns over from Carlin, and Sam and Dean are leaning on their bikes, seeing what they make of them before they load up and put the cutoffs on.

“This is gonna be a long five hours,” Sam remarks as he starts to pull his riding gear on. He tries not to pick at the temporary tattoos that are on his arms and chest as his skin stretches. One last touch to make sure they fit in.

“Yep. Let’s just hope the cops don’t pull us over. No speeding. No nothing,” Dean says.

Sam nods and pulls his cutoff over his arms and then slides his shades and helmet on next. He shoves his hands in a pair of black leather driving gloves and then starts to hook his bike saddles on. Dean’s doing the same beside him. They’ll be wearing backpacks as well, which will cover much of the cutoffs, but Sam knows what they’ll look like to law enforcement regardless of how much of The Reapers’ insignia is visible.

They set off into the high noonday heat, and Sam’s glad he put some sun lotion on before they started. But once the air is ripping past them it’s cool enough.

The two of them get looks as they ride, suspicious glances by drivers and passengers alike, but they don’t get pulled over by the authorities once. It’s a little scary at first, riding the Phantom, but Sam slowly gets used to the humming machine between his legs and the roar of its engine. Dean leads the way and Sam focuses on staying alive as they hurtle along the asphalt.


	5. Chapter 5

Pulling up outside the MC’s clubhouse after five, Dean tries not to show any signs of weakness as he maneuvers the bike into the parking area for visiting members. He can tell from the row of bikes on the opposite side of the parking lot, who’s Red Bluff crew. The bikes are many and of a varied style and levels of luxury versus pure machine. Dean appreciates the show, but it’s still not quite muscle cars—an opinion he’ll need to keep to himself unless he wants a fist in his face.

A biker watches them from the entrance, just leaning against the heavy set wooden door. He has a graying bushy mustache, short cropped hair and tattoo covered arms. His cut’s patches show him to be a member of The Reapers and he looks at Dean with an assessing look not unlike that of someone who’s former military. It reminds Dean of John for the briefest second and he feels his gut twist just a tiny bit.

“You the guys from Boston?” calls the biker in a slight Cali twang, straightening up as he steps away from the door, pushing away from the club house which looks like an oversized log cabin.

“Well, by way of Kansas, originally. Mother chapter’s the one we tend to spend most of our time,” Dean calls and heads over, helmet now off his head.

“Harv said you boys would be coming over this week to have a look round.” The biker holds out his hand to shake. “Name’s Felix.”

Dean grasps Felix’s hand and shakes. “Dean. And this is Sam.”

Sam steps forward as Dean let’s go and shakes Felix’s hand. “Don’t suppose you’ve got anything cold in, do you?” he asks with a grin.

“Oh, do we ever,” Felix smiles back, letting go of Sam’s hand. “C’mon in, I’m sure we can find you boys something.”

Heading into the clubhouse, Dean lets out a small sigh of relief as the cool brush of air conditioning washes over his skin. The clubhouse has maybe a half dozen members in, some sat by the bar, a few observing a pool game in mid-play.

A few eyes land on them, but no one looks at them like they have two-heads a piece and Dean takes that as a win. He assesses the entrances and exits. Noting where there’s a sign leading towards the restrooms and what looks like a set of heavy doors that would lead into the so-called “chapel” the main meeting room for members to discuss club business. Felix leads them over to the L-shaped bar and they both grab stools as a woman smiles graciously at them.

“What’ll it be?” she coos, eyes appreciative of both Dean and Sam. She drags a hand through her long black hair, pushing strands behind her ear in that way women do. Dean wonders for a moment if maybe she might be open to having a private drink or two before remembering the case.

“We’ll have two beers, sweetheart,” Dean says.

Felix chuckles from Dean’s right elbow as Sam settles on a stool to Dean’s left. Looking over at Dean and Sam, Felix asks, “Does he always take charge like that?”

Dean glances towards Sam, and is about to answer, when Sam pipes up, “Mostly he just keeps it to the bedroom.”

The sweat on Dean’s back is suddenly cold as ice. _Where the hell did that come from?!_ Dean panics as he hears someone snorting something from a side of the room hidden by the L of the bar, towards Sam.

A seventh club member appears, the one who must have snorted something, rubbing at his nose in that way cocaine users tend to. His eyes are bright and he strolls over to the pool game, ignoring the four of them at the bar.

_What if they don’t like… And we’re brothers… Oh god…_ Dean’s thoughts spiral for a second until his acting instincts kick in and he replies, “Haha, you say that. But you’re pretty bossy too, Sasquatch.”

Dean swallows hard and prays that The Reapers don’t have anything against people who fall into the LGBT side of sexual mores.

Felix snorts and laughs, slapping the side of the bar. “Ha, you’re both... as bad as Jules and Ricci.” He wipes tears from his eyes and chuckles some more.

“I’m Hayley, by the way,” their barmaid greets as she passes over two large beer glasses filled with cold, cold beer. She leans across the bar just so that she can say to Dean, “But, if you two like company, let me know.”

Dean huffs in a breath and surprises himself by taking her offer seriously—and he and Sam have never done anything like that before. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmurs back, dick getting just a little hard at the thought.

_What the hell is with me?_ Dean panics, and then flashes back to what Sam looked like trying on his cut and he has to rearrange himself a bit. He glances back over at the pool game, watching the seventh member maybe get a little handsy with one of the other guys there and wonders if he might be Jules or Ricci.

Finally the current pool game ends behind them and Dean listens to the clunk of shifting floorboards as several pairs of feet head over to the bar. Dean watches and listens, not picking up any real hostility, just a sense of curiosity from the other members there.

It’s not until the club front door smacks open during their second beer and a ‘nam story from Felix, that the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up. He casually twists around on his stool and meets the eyes of an older, gray haired man, hair slicked back against his skull but not thinning. He’s got a strong jaw and a million dollar smile that Dean suspects is the result of needing work after a fight or a crash.

The walk, the steely blue eyes. It’s obvious from this distance that he must be the president of this chapter. One Alex Stevens or Axle as he likes to be called according to Terrance’s friend Harv.

Beside him is a younger man, jaw and eyes familiar, hair tawny brown and eyes the same blue, who’s clean shaven and has a plaid shirt tied around his waist, cut off showing bare arms and a swarm of tattoos. He walks confidently a step behind and aside from being the president’s son, he’s pretty sure the guy’s his VP too—Vance Stevens.

“Felix, who do we have here?” growls Axle.

“Dean and Sam—the nomads from the east Harv said we’re heading out to check out things,” Felix greets in a no-nonsense-voice and slides of his stool. He takes two long strides over to the president and then they’re thumping each other on the backs as they give each other quick hugs.

“Ah, Harv’s boys! Of course,” Axle declares in a husky note of understanding.

Dean and Sam take that as their cues to stand up and finally really play their parts.

“Good to meet you, sir,” Dean says as he takes Axle’s offered hand and shakes it.

Sam does the same with Vance and they switch. There’s some friendly back slapping and neither biker eyes Dean or Sam with pure suspicion. Dean thinks he’ll need to send something to Terrance to pass onto Harv for getting them so well set up in the first place.

“That your Phantom out there?” Vance asks Sam, who replies with a quick happy nod.

“Yeah, this year’s model. Wanna take a look?” Sam asks. Vance agrees and heads off with Sam back outside into the cooler evening air as Dean’s left with Axle and Felix.

“So, what’s making you think of joining us here at Red Bluff?” Axle asks casually as he sits up at the bar and Dean and Felix join him.

“The winters back east,” Dean jokes and then turns more serious, “but really, we got some heat back out there that is only just going away. Liked to settle in somewhere where our faces are less familiar. You get me?”

“Settle huh? Patch in from nomad?” Axle asks, as he scrutinizes Dean even more closely.

Dean shrugs. “If you’ll have us…” Dean sucks in his bottom lip for a second and then adds. “Been wanting to settle down for a while.”

Axle, takes in the people gathered inside the clubhouse and then returns his gaze to Dean. He gives Dean a knowing glance and nods his head. “You two been together long?”

Dean doesn’t wavier as he says, “As long as he could ride.”

_And why are we going with this? Oh god, what hole am I digging here?_ Dean thinks as he continues to try and not panic.

Once they all have more beers and some peanuts, Dean chats with Felix and Axle some more. Conversation not turning to anything case related until Axle gently points out what their main businesses are here in Red Bluff.

“Of course, if you patch in with us, you’ll get a cut for your work. We do some muling for distribution. Nothing local law enforcement cares much about. Of course can’t say the same for the DEA,” Axle huffs. “Anyways, we have a few other more… legit pieces of business. If we think you can add to the table, we’ll take a vote.”

Dean nods along, just about understanding what Axle's offering: they prove themselves, they can become full members of the chapter. Paying dues and earning. Dean hopes the case isn’t going to last that long that they have a realistic chance of that even happening.

Sam and Vance step back in, Sam a little closer to Vance than Dean would like, and behind them comes another figure. The man must be in his forties, black hair peppered with gray. He doesn’t wear a cutoff—all short sleeved white dress shirt and teal blue dress slacks—and Dean wonders for a moment what the hell he’s doing walking into The Reapers’ clubhouse.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got some business to take of.” Axle gets off his stool, slapping Dean and Felix on the back as he passes by to the new face.

“Who’s that?” Dean asks, looking over at Felix.

“Ah, that’s Edgar Fears. He and Axle go ways back. Just returned to Red Bluff after living out in the middle of nowhere Georgia for the past two decades.” Felix takes a sip of beer.

“You like some local MC guide?” Dean asks with a grin.

Sam slides in beside Dean.

“Nah, just the local gossip,” Felix says with a wink.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam’s sitting at their motel room table, digging through more police files as Dean talks to Terrance on his cell. The air con is blissfully cool against Sam’s skin—he’s stripped down to just his jeans, feet bare as he deals with the heat. He can’t quite believe the summer this part of Cali is having, but he’s glad he can strip off in the comfort of their room. In a way, it’s a little surprising to him, because he doesn’t remember feeling ever quite this hot while in California before, _but it wasn’t until we were at the clubhouse that things started to feel too warm_.

That there’s also one bed in their motel room is something that has remained unquestioned so far. Sam tries not to think about that too much as he delves into the files.

He’s poking through several drug overdose cases that the local police department had handled in the months running up Jane Whitney’s death. That there’s been as many as there has been is statistically strange, Sam notes from looking at the department’s own statistics on their website. But only two others have a hint of being similar to Jane’s. Vics found in pools of their own blood, though not in their own houses. Instead they’d been in the restroom of a popular nightclub and from the photos, Sam can tell that something else was going on before the blood and the death.

In one photo is a partially emptied baggy of _something_ , the camera not quite picking up the granular substance. He can tell the consistency is definitely not that of cocaine or heroin, but is potentially the same as crystal meth. But then the toxicology report on the stuff has come back with unknown compounds and a long list of organic compounds that Sam’s never heard of being used in drug manufacture. And it’s brown...

“Wait,” he hisses. Peeling himself off of the plastic chair, ignoring Dean’s phone conversation, he dives into one of their duffel bags and pulls out a spell book Bobby let him borrow. He starts looking between the spell ingredients, especially the herbs and plants, and cross referencing it with what the compounds in the plants are.

“So get this,” Sam says as Dean ends his call, “there’s been another death like Jane Whitney’s. The vics were found dead in the restroom with some suspect drugs in a bag and a trace of sulfur.”

“Okay…”

“And much of the drug compounds are unknown. They don’t even think they’re drugs. But if you look at the chemical analysis against the compounds found in a lot of herbs and plants, and those herbs and plants in a spell book or two… It starts to look like the ingredients for something more spell like.”

“What are you saying?” Dean asks with a distracting stretch.

“Look, both substances found on the scene have traces of Damiana in them. It’s a plant, mostly found in Central America _and_ has historically been used as an aphrodisiac.”

“Were the vics, you know….?” Dean trails off.

“The couple in the restroom definitely were according to witness testimony. Jane probably was as well if uh… the traces of fresh seminal fluid on his right hand and clothes are any indication.” Sam sits back down at his laptop and waves a hand at the screen.

Dean comes over and leans over Sam’s back, black cotton t-shirt rubbing against Sam in the most distracting way as Dean gets in his space.

“They were mid-act before being sliced and diced? That is a mean ass way to go.” Dean shudders and stands back.

“So what now?” Sam asks.

“You get dressed, eat some food and then we head out to Jane Whitney’s place all quiet like.”

“Those bikes aren’t exactly subtle,” Sam points out.

“We’ll park down the street and walk up to the place.” Dean heads towards his duffel. “It’ll be fine.”

Dean gets another shirt on and then pulls up his cell, a pizza place menu in hand and orders for them. Sam gets some clothes together, but decides not to dress again until they’re about ready to go.

If he notices that Dean’s slightly distracted by him while they wait for food and eat—Sam doesn’t say anything.

They ride out to Jane Whitney’s place, taking less than twenty to get there. The neighborhood looks pretty clean and pleasant, white picket fences and the whole shebang. Rows and rows of single floor miniature ranch style homes. Leaving their bikes a street over and easing their way through backyards in the dark, Sam feels a little weird to be moving around in the cutoff, but trying to ignore it all the same. It’s cooler now at least.

Dean keeps watch as Sam picks the lock on the back door and carefully shifts the police tape so that they can discreetly get inside. In the distance a dog’s barking, but it’s not close, so Sam thinks nothing of it as they step into the oppressive mugginess of the closed house.

Flicking on their flashlights, Sam lets Dean lead as they sweep through the kitchen. No signs of devastation clear. As they move into the hallway, the dark stains of cleaned up blood show up under their lights. The worst has been mopped up for hygiene purposes, but the stains are pretty clear.

Most of the evidence has been removed, but the knocked over furniture remains. Sam circles round to the living room and studies the coffee table there. There’s something sticking to the surface there, but Sam can’t tell if it’s remains of the drug and really doesn’t want to find out.

“Sulfur,” Dean says, rubbing his right forefinger and thumb together as he stands near a window. “There was definitely a demon here.”

Sam nods. “I wonder if the cops round Jane’s stash?”

The two of them continue to poke round. Dean heads to Jane’s bedroom and Sam continues to check over the living room.

“In here!” Dean calls.

Sam heads into the bedroom, which is a disaster zone sans blood stains as it is. Dean is standing near the bed, floorboard popped out of the way and a baggy in his hand. It’s about the same size as the ones shown in the crime scene photos of all the deaths.

“Careful with that,” Sam says as he looks at the bag in Dean’s palm.

“I’m always careful.”

Sam meets Dean’s eyes with a not convinced glare and continues to study the hew and shape of the substance.

“Definitely not like anything I’ve seen before,” Sam says.

“And how are you suddenly a drug expert?” Dean asks in a slightly alarmed voice. His internalized image of saintly Sam picked away just a bit.

“College.” Sam shrugs and backs away.

Dean sputters at that, Sam thinks he might be too afraid to ask more, though Sam never did anything more than pot while he was at Stanford. He, however, knows Dean’s experimented in the past.

“C’mon,” Sam says, “I don’t think we’re going to find much more here. Not like drug dealers handout receipts.”

Dean crouches down beside the pulled up floorboards. “What’s this?”

“Hmmm?”

Dean reaches into the rectangular hole and pulls out a cell. A burner by the looks of things.

“Okay, so he had a cell for calling his dealer,” Sam admits.

“But you’re right, we’re done here.” Dean pockets the cell and the baggy, then puts the floorboard back.

When they get back to the motel, it’s close to midnight and Sam realizes _again_ that they only have one bed.

He and Dean stare at it together for a long while. There’s no couch either of them can claim and the floor is looking a little suspect.

“You keep to your side,” Dean finally grits out and then heads to the bathroom to get washed up.

It’s still warm, and Sam strips down to his boxers and puts on a t-shirt, hoping things won’t be too awkward once they’re both in bed.

It totally is.


	7. Chapter 7

Yawning, Dean tries to stretch and finds he can’t due to a weight on top of him. He opens his eyes into the dull morning shaded light of the motel room and finds he’s got Sam sprawled over him—full octopus. Sam’s a furnace and looks so sweet with his eyes closed in sleep, gentle breaths pushing out of him.

Dean goes to shift Sam away from him, wrapping a hand around Sam’s wrist, and then Sam snorts in his sleep and scooches up closer to Dean, arm tightening and morning wood pressing into Dean’s side as the leg over his hips tightens. It’s like being hit in the chest, air being sucked away from the impact, and Dean gulps in a breath as he tries to get his breathing under control. There’s no control though as Sam murmurs something in his sleep and presses closer, clothed cock rubbing against Dean’s thigh.

Blood is flowing south, no matter how much Dean wills himself to not get hard, but Sam’s closeness is not something he was ready to wake up to. They’d shared beds before, sure, but none with the embarrassing set of circumstances in development. _Who’s he even thinking of?_ Dean wonders for a split second and then Sam starts grinding in earnest and Dean resists the part of himself that wants to turn over and face Sam, rub himself against Sam’s length.

Instead, Dean makes a real effort to scramble out of the bed and from Sam’s clutches, earning a disappointed moan from Sam. Dean backs away from the bed, painfully aware of his own erection and watches in fascination as Sam reaches for himself under the covers and lets out a satisfied hum as his hand starts to go to work on his cock.

Seconds pass and Dean watches as an asleep Sam moans and grunts in his sleep, little frustrated breaths skipping out of him as he jerks himself off while not awake. They’ve shared bedrooms and beds a zillion times before, Dean can’t remember this ever happening like this, or him sticking around to watch.

He can’t stop watching. His eyes are drawn to the very obvious movements that are making the covers bounce. And he has a noise building in his throat, one that might be a scream or a moan—Dean can’t tell as he watches his little brother jerk himself off while unconscious. Dean’s heart is going thud, thud in his chest like a game of whack-o-mole as he watches Sam, eyes never leaving the desperate pursuit of pleasure fluctuating over Sam’s sleep mussed face.

_I need to go. Walk away. Just go to the bathroom. Just—_ Dean manages to think after minutes have dragged agonizingly by. Sam starts to whine in the back of his throat, drawing Dean’s attention fully back. There’s a few long moments where Sam takes an age to draw in a breath as he climbs closer and closer, and Dean feels himself slipping closer and closer to hell.

Dean’s hand kneads his own dick through his underwear as he watches Sam shudder through an orgasm, still perfectly asleep. Sam sighs happily as he finishes and goes boneless in the bed—eyes not opening at all.

Too late, Dean tears his eyes away from Sam and they land on the motel room table. There’s Sam's research notes and laptop, an open baggy from Jean’s house and the cell they found there too. Dean ignores all of it and heads for the bathroom, desperate to run a shower and take care of himself.

***

It’s gone ten when they wind their way to the MC clubhouse again. The Reapers have a few early risers and Sam finds himself wondering if Vance gets up this early. He looks over the line of bikes outside and finds the Harley-Davidson Dyna Super Glide Sport—black paint and chrome shining bright—that Vance showed him the night before. Sam’s stomach swoops a little as he thinks back on the nice dream he’d been having before waking up, and then his stomach turns a little icy as he recalls Vance slowly morphing into Dean—making him come.

He’d awkwardly peeled himself out of his underwear when it had been his turn to finally use the bathroom, not that Dean had been quick. And Sam was under no delusion as to what Dean had been doing in that shower while he used up all the hot water.

Still, Sam tries to ignore the parts of the morning that didn’t quite fit the narrative he needs, as he follows Dean towards the clubhouse front door. It’s a little cooler today, breakfast was good, and they’ve confirmed they have a case—he dwells on the things that are going his way.

Heading inside, there’s the swell of chorus to “Renegade” by Styx playing on a jukebox and a few members playing a pool game. There’s the smell of coffee on the air and a few members nursing mugs of it at the bar. No one’s behind it yet.

“There you are!” calls Vance, blue plaid stretched across his shoulders and a wicked smile on his face.

Sam turns and returns the smile and feels Dean draw himself up beside him. “What, jealous?” Sam whispers just for Dean, as he plays up their cover.

Dean stutters, but doesn’t get the chance to reply as the two of them are marshaled into the chapel.

***

Dean looks around the chapel, taking in the large wooden table that dominates the center of the space. It’s a hefty piece of walnut, highly polished. As he stares at it, he thinks about the burner he’d found the night before. He’d thought about placing a call on it after breakfast, but without a hunch as to who made up the drug’s supply chain and how it tied in with the demon shit, calling it would just put whoever was partly responsible onto them—and they needed a smaller suspect pool first.

_And I just don’t think a bunch of bikers are capable of mixing up witchy drugs,_ Dean admits to himself as Vance settles his ass on top of the table. Vance leans back a little, arms sliding behind him so his chest is puffing out.

Dean watches Sam out of the corner of his eye and notices just how intently Sam is drinking in the sight in front of them. It's’ like there’s more to Sam than he realized after taking him from Stanford all those many months ago. Sure, he’d been with Jess, but Dean had just assumed that Jess was the only person Sam had been with.

A tiny coil of jealousy tightens further and Dean forces those thoughts away as he checks in with reality and the fact that Vance has probably been talking at them for the past thirty seconds.

“So you want us to help shift some product?” Sam asks casually.

Dean blinks, brain catching up with what he hadn’t been focused on.

“Right. Just need some unfamiliar faces to drive. Felix will be in back, he’ll tell you where you’re heading and then do the talking once you get there.” Vance flashes a big smile and jumps up from the table. “It’s a picnic guys. Just up to Redding and back. You keep an eye on Felix. Simple.”

“Okay, we’ll do it,” Dean says.

It takes twenty minutes for Felix to show up, but soon enough, they’re set up in some nondescript black van and on the road, heading north to Redding. Sam makes a quiet comment to Dean about it being on a reservation, which he keeps in mind. Felix won’t say what they’re specifically going there for, but it feels like it’s more than just a supply run.

The drive up there takes a further thirty minutes, with Dean at the wheel, and by the time they’re in Redding, the noon sun is high in the sky and Dean’s thinking a little about lunch. He tries to keep his wits about him as he waits with Sam in the van, watching Felix go into some barber shop, a plastic wrapped package stowed under his cut. There’s a couple of clientele inside, but Felix bypasses them all to head out through the back.

“Who do you think’s making the drugs?” Dean queries Sam, eyes trained on the barber shop.

Sam slouches back in his seat, knees resting against the dashboard. “Not the MC. From my digging around the local police, I can say that there’s not a single suspected case of them even cooking meth. Now dealing and transporting is a different matter—of course they might have the local chief paid off.

“But the toxicology report on the stuff found at the death scenes… Bobby emailed me before we left this morning, and some of the ingredients are used in demon summoning rituals, he said. So sure, they’re called The Reapers, but I haven’t seen anything more demon worshiping about them than this one dude doing the sign of the horns while rocking out to Black Sabbath on the jukebox last night.”

Dean rubs at the back of his neck, eyes watching the back of the shop. “How do we find the supplier? We’re going off of Terrance’s intel here that the club is involved.”

“It’s not like gangs of any sort are particularly free with who supplies them. And the time it would take us to get in the inner circle to find out? Not worth it.”

“What can we do?”

“I’m thinking,” Sam snipes, fingers tapping distractedly on his thigh.

Dean thinks of retorting something back, and then stops. He looks back to the barber shop and watches Felix coming through the shop. “Maybe Felix will say…” Dean suggests as he gets the engine going.

Felix walks quickly towards them. There’s a white cloth bundle in his right hand and the hint of blood seeping through. Felix slams the side door open, climbs in and yells at Dean to get going. Dean doesn’t need to be told twice as he floors it, reversing quickly and then heading back the way they came.

Once they’re well out of Redding, Dean finally starts to relax, though he’s a little worried about what might be in Felix’s white bundle. The blood and Felix’s sudden need for getting the hell out of dodge, suggests to Dean that a part of someone is in the white bundle. But he doesn’t ask questions—he just drives.

On the way back to Red Bluff, they stop off at a diner to grab a spot of lunch.

And it would be fine, but they’ve definitely got an unidentified body part in the van and they’re wearing their cutoffs. From the looks Dean sees the three of them getting as they sit together in a booth, Dean and Sam crammed next to each other—there’s not much love for the local MC.

At least their waitress actually doesn’t think they’re all that bad and definitely gives Dean an extra serving of the lunchtime special: chili. Sam goes for a cobb salad and Felix goes for the chili too (though he may be a tad disappointed that he doesn’t get an extra ladle full like Dean).

“So, you two, how was your first night in Red Bluff?” Felix asks with that sly tone that asks for deets, but doesn’t really want deets.

Dean can practically feel the heat suddenly coming off of Sam’s face. Instead of responding right away, Dean picks up his cup of coffee and takes a sip while trying to think of a way to respond that keeps their cover intact and Sam from dying beside him. It’s tough.

“Ordered in, and then… had a pleasant evening together,” Dean drawls, setting his cup back down.

“Uh huh,” Felix replies with a wink. And that seems to be the end of that—Dean sighs in relief.

The three of them continue their lunch with just gentle none club or love life conversation. Sam slowly calms down beside Dean, but he can’t help but notice that Sam’s bumping their legs together more than is necessary.


	8. Chapter 8

Back at The Reapers’ clubhouse, there’s the usual gathering of bikes outside. Sam steps out of the van and takes a small amount of solace in the fact that today is still a tiny bit less sticky with heat. He follows Dean and Felix up to the clubhouse entrance and is thinking about whether he wants a beer. He keeps hoping that whoever’s body part they’ve transported in the van, deserved having it cut off.

A shout cuts through the air, coming from inside.

“You promised, you son of a bitch!” roars Axle. The rest of the conversation is lost as they hurry inside. The doors to the chapel are closed, but it’s clear that’s where Axle and whoever is meeting.

“What in hell’s name?” Felix calls over to Hayley and Vance at the bar.

Hayley shrugs, and Vance looks at them with an impassive face.

“Fears,” Vance says and drains the beer glass at his elbow. He sighs and stands from his stool. “I better go do something.” He strides off and pulls open the door to the chapel, only to be greeted by angry shouts telling him to “fuck off” but he goes inside anyway.

“Fears?” Sam asks out loud as he, Dean and Felix settle in at the bar, sitting sideways so they have a view of the chapel. “The guy who visited last night?”

“Uh huh,” Hayley says and gets them beers without them even asking.

Sam accepts the answer and watches the chapel. The glass windows from the meeting room that look out to the clubhouse are all blocked with closed black blinds. They can’t see the heated conversation. Sam remembers seeing Fears the day before, but had thought the guy out of place, not someone who would piss off the head of a gang quite capable of killing him.

Felix clears his throat once Hayley heads off to clear some tables on the other side of the room. “Fears, he’s, uh, a strategic business supplier,” he explains.

Sam is pretty sure Felix wants to tell them more, but can’t risk it as they’re not full charter members. It’s not normally the place of nomads to know the ins and outs of charter business.

“So, not a silent partner, huh?” Dean jokes beside them as the shouts die down to just angry simmering discussion.

“Huh, no.” Felix looks at Sam and Dean, and then back to the closed double doors of the chapel.

Sam makes himself a little smaller on the stool, curling his shoulders in. “But he’s involved in club business?”

Felix glances around. There’s a pool game going on quietly in a corner, but few people are in the club this early in the afternoon. He rubs a hand on his jeans and takes a sip of cold beer.

“He’s our supplier… for the ‘molly’,” Felix air quotes, “we’ve been hustling.” Felix takes another draw of his beer. “But that shit ain’t right. I’ve heard things.”

Hayley passes them and heads over to another corner of the club to clean up.

“Heard things?” Sam presses.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy,” Felix shakes his head. “Like flat out loopy.”

Dean gives Felix a reassuring pat on the back. “If it makes it any easier, we’ve seen some pretty… weird shit in our time. So spill.”

“We won’t judge,” Sam reassures.

Felix takes another peek around the club and then draws in a long breath and lets it out. Steeling himself.

“I’ve heard that the shit we’ve been pushing… It’s got some weird effects. One line… you feel fantastic. Touch, and stuff feels… you feel good. Then on a second line, well, you feel even better and like you have to… bust a nut or else.” Felix swallows. “But a third hit… no one says what that does. But I heard from one of our dealers that the third hit is messy. You don’t survive it.”

Hayley saunters past again and Sam gives her an awkward smile.

“Don’t survive it, how?” Sam pushes.

“Whatever happened to Jane Whitney. That’s how you don’t survive it.” Felix chugs the rest of his beer and messily wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you didn’t hear that, from me, understand?”

“Oh we, understand,” Dean reassures.

Sam sneaks another look to the chapel. The shouting seems to have stopped for now. _But what about this Fears guy? This drug is magical in some way, has stuff used for summoning demons. How’s he making it? Does he know what he’s doing? He must do… Is he possessed?_

“Where’s Fears from anyway?” Sam asks.

Felix shifts on his stool. “Like I said yesterday, far as I know it’s somewhere from the middle of nowhere Georgia… I think he and Axle have some history they’re not sharing. But the product’s bringing in good money, so we don’t ask questions.

“Speaking of… I know you two ain’t from back east, but I’m gonna keep that to myself. You just promise me you stop this shit, understand?” Felix says calmly like he isn’t on the verge of blowing their cover.

“How’d you-” Dean starts.

“Terrance is a good, old friend. I know he’s worried about us… And Jane was my nephew.”

The chapel doors open and they shut up. Vance looks a little red in the face, as do the two older men behind him. Axle looks pensive where Fears looks triumphant. He contrasts with Vance and Axle, a light gray business suit on, paired with a black shirt and smart black shoes. Even if he’s graying at his temples, he walks like a man with youth on his side.

No further words are exchanged between Axle, Vance and Fears as Fears stalks out of the club. Vance seems to realize Felix, Dean and Sam are there still and hurries over to them.

“So, how’d business go?” Vance queries, reaching under the bar for a bottle. He brings up a bottle of Maker’s Mark and cradles it in the crook of his arm.

“We handled it,” Felix announces. “That asshole won’t be touching any girls again while dealing with our product.”

“Good.” Vance licks his lips. “Wait there would ya?” He hurries back to the chapel and then comes back a few moments later with three brown envelopes, likely stuffed full of cash. “Just a little something for your troubles.”

He hands one to each of them and then hurries off with his bottle of bourbon.

Felix eyes his envelope with suspicion. “If you try any of that shit, be careful. And here,” he pulls a card out from a pocket in his cutoff, “Call me if you need anything.”

Felix slips off his stool and heads on out. Sam stares after his back, wondering if cutting off the supply is going to be enough, the envelope in his hands heavy.

***

“Have you found where Edgar Fears lives?” Dean calls as he fetches two sodas from their trusty green Coleman cooler. The room’s mini-fridge is busted and Dean doesn’t want any more beer—yet.

There’s clacking of keys and some humming from Sam as he works through web queries and databases, trying to find the guy. Dean knows they could have asked around, but that would have let Fears know they were onto him.

“Gimme a minute,” Sam says. There’s more typing, the laptop getting a right workout and leaving Dean a little stunned as to how fast Sam can type. Maybe he stands at Sam’s side and is a little absorbed in the way Sam’s long fingers work the keys. Dean can’t say.

His eyes travel over to the two stuffed brown paper envelopes sat on the motel table. Knowing that the cash was for a job where an abuser was given a clear message—Dean doesn’t feel any issues in keeping hold of it. It’s more gas money, motel rooms and food for him and Sam as they save people from boogeymen.

Setting their sodas down on the table, Dean picks up one envelope and opens it. There’s a baggy of the drugs they think Fears is manufacturing and a wad of cash as expected. Dean’s about to start counting the cash when he instead pulls out the baggy, curiosity getting the better of him. He looks at the crystalline brown powder, its tiny particles glittering in the few streams of sunlight cutting into their room.

“Free product,” Dean says and the keyboard dance stops.

“Vance gave us drugs?” Sam asks with a stretch and then climbs out of the motel chair. He stretches some more and Dean finds it difficult to not watch.

“You’re surprised? They’re a biker gang, Sam.” Dean snorts.

“Did you hear the way Felix described it?” Sam asks as he finishes stretching and picks up his can of soda.

“Sounds like it feels good, before the blood curdling death part.” Dean sets the baggy down on the table.

“I still remember when Dad caught you smoking pot the first time,” Sam remarks.

Dean’s throat closes up a little, his eyes pricking. “Yeah, well, one of us needed to act like a teenager?”

“Oh?” Sam says, taking a step to Dean, getting in his space. “I was plenty teenager enough. Or do you forget all the arguing?”

“I try to, yeah,” Dean shrugs. “Maybe you should have been the one smoking joints. Loosening up.”

Sam’s left hand whips forward, going to grab the baggy Dean’s holding, but Dean dodges out of Sam’s way, taking a step back.

“Yeah, maybe just a little pot…” Dean pushes.

Sam rolls his eyes and sets his soda down. The two of them are only a few feet apart and Dean’s pretty sure he knows what’s about to happen.

“You’re such a tight ass, Sammy,” Dean goads unnecessarily. Sam launches himself at Dean, grappling him to the floor and they tussle, rolling around on the not so great motel carpet, hands playfully jabbing at each other, as one tries to maneuver the other into submission—half wrestling, half tickling. Sam manages to get Dean on his back, as he keeps trying to pin Dean’s arms.

Dean forgets about the baggy of drugs that’s now squished between them, until a cloud of brown crystal dust erupts and they’re both breathing in the noxious substance. Words scramble around his head as he tries to get a grip on the situation—but he can’t as his skin starts to prickle and then feel like it’s being brushed by a million feathers.

His dick swells in the confines of his jeans and Sam’s looking down at him with blown eyes and a clearly chubbing cock of his own. Sam doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask, he just swoops down and has his mouth on Dean’s, hungry and hot, opening him up like a box of candy on Valentine’s. Need and want course through Dean’s veins as he lets Sam kiss him like it’s breathing, tasting of sugar and fizz.

Sam grinds his hips down on Dean, sending sparks shooting through Dean’s nerves and making him moan into Sam’s mouth. They kiss and kiss, tongues fighting and wet, hips responding eagerly to each other. Dean’s leaking pre-come by the time Sam rolls off of him and drags him onto his wobbly feet. Sam’s fast long fingers work Dean’s clothes off and Dean’s suddenly wishing to find out how those fingers work in all sorts of ways.

Layers peeled off, Sam drags Dean to the room’s only bed, where only that morning Sam had dry humped Dean in his sleep, and pulls Dean on top of him, letting Dean bracket in his lean body. Distantly, two parts of Dean’s brain have an argument, with the one side that’s desired and craved for years to win out over the one that says they should stop. Dean’s cock hangs heavy between his legs and there’s no way he can stop as he returns to kissing Sam, open mouthed and hungry. Their cocks bump against each other, both full and ready.

Dean can’t get enough of the way Sam tastes and smells, catching his breath by Sam’s ear and inhaling the scent of his apple scented shampoo and conditioner mixed with the spiced aftershave he likes to wear. He licks a line from behind Sam’s ear down his neck and to his collarbone, shimmying his way down Sam’s body as he does.

“Dean…” Sam pants, mouth free, “fuck, Dean… didn’t,” Dean starts to suck a hickey into Sam’s left pectoral, making him pant harder, “didn’t know!” Sam gasps, hips bucking up to Dean as he catches his cock on Dean’s chest and stomach, pulling a long line of pre-come down his skin.

Dean sucks hard one last time, making Sam shudder and whine and then pulls his mouth off, licking the hickey he’s left on Sam’s chest. Dean’s skin feels warm and fuzzy, like a million fingers are urging his every movement on.

“I know… Sammy, I know,” Dean moans as he pulls further down Sam’s body. He looks up at Sam, laid out under him, and rests his lips on the tip of Sam’s hard red dick. He flicks his tongue out and tastes the salty light pre-release there. The taste zings across his tongue and makes Dean flex his glutes, squeezing his hole. _We can work with this_ , Dean assures himself as he swallows Sam down, surprising himself when he doesn’t gag as he almost takes all of Sam inside.

Fist at the bottom of Sam’s length, Dean works Sam, head bobbing as he pulls up and down, tongue pressing all the right places under Sam’s head. He inhales the musk there and licks and teases before taking Sam all in again.

“Fuck,” Sam moans, “Dean, please, gonna… stop,” Sam begs. Dean pulls off, right hand tight around the base of Sam’s dick.

“What do you want?” Dean manages to ask before Sam wrestles him off and pins Dean to the bed, head at the foot of the bed.

“Want… you,” Sam declares, mouth on Dean’s again. Sam’s spit slick cock drags against Dean’s as they kiss. Sam’s tongue fucking in and out of Dean’s mouth, over and over.

Finally, Sam pulls up for air, but then leans over the side of the bed and starts rifling through Dean’s bag. It takes a second for Dean to click and realize what Sam’s after.

“Left pocket,” Dean says.

“You’re clean?” Sam asks, breathy and pushing Dean down into the mattress as he digs around in the bag.

“Mmhmmm, clean.” Dean sucks in a breath, body temperature ratcheting up as the lack of desired contact continues. Finally, Sam pulls back, bottle of lube in hand.

“Gonna open you up,” Sam explains, giving himself a few quick jerks, making his cock bead just that bit more pre-come.

“Fuck, yes, Sammy,” Dean begs, suddenly glad he’s about to learn what Sam’s long fingers are like. Dean spreads his legs open, pulling his knees up as his feet stay flat on the bed.

Sam lubes up his right index finger and kneels between Dean’s legs. He takes hold of Dean’s cock in his left hand as he pushes the tip of his right index finger into Dean’s waiting hole. The small intrusion at his entrance makes Dean cry out a little and then he forces himself to relax as Sam slowly works his finger inside of him. Dean wants Sam inside of him right then, but he knows he’ll get hurt, so he waits painfully patiently as Sam works him open, finger easily finding his prostate once it's fully inside. Dean’s already so close, he hopes he can last.

It doesn’t take too long for Dean to open up for Sam and soon he’s lubing up his cock and pushing his way inside of Dean, arms straining as he boxes Dean in. Sam bottoms out and they both shudder.

“Sam…” Dean trails off, overwhelmed by the sheer size of Sam inside of him. Sam’s girth and length are all consuming, and Dean looks up to Sam, drawing a hand over Sam’s face and then pulling him down for a kiss. Sam shifts inside Dean as he goes down, brushing Dean’s prostate and as their mouths meet, and Dean can’t hold back.

He comes, yelling into Sam’s mouth, ass tightening as he does and he can feel Sam shudder above. Ass and cock quickly becoming sensitive, Dean urges Sam on, reaching a hand down to slap his ass. Sam shudders and pulls his hips backwards, then snaps them forward. Quickly picking up the pace, Dean holds on tight as Sam fucks into him, chasing his own release.

“Didn’t know,” Sam repeats as he comes up for air, and then his body seizes as his orgasm takes over. Sam’s hips loosely piston his cock in and out of Dean as he shudders through his own orgasm.

He falls forward, and cuddles Dean as he lies on top of him, cock slowly slipping out. Dean can feel the mess sticking between them and sliding out of his ass, which now feels empty.

They fall asleep like that. The world—the case—forgotten for the time being.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam doesn’t know how many hours later, but he comes to wakefulness, thighs sore and mouth tasting like crap. Dean’s asleep in his arms, skin warm against his own. The sun’s low outside and the sodas from earlier are still on the room’s only table. The air con ticks into gear again and Sam takes stock of what must have happened.

_Dean and I have slept together_ , he thinks, panic slowly rising. He remembers the fight, and the powder and the overwhelming need to just be with Dean _finally_. Sam feels guilty, knowing that he’s wanted something more for a long time, and only the destruction since Stanford slowly pushing him closer to thinking about seizing it. _Hell, what about my wet dream this morning, huh?_ Sam thinks guiltily.

The drugs may have helped get them here, but Sam knows that the drugs only pulled them into a bed that had been waiting there for him (at least) all along. He’s less sure of Dean’s feelings on the matter and he’s preparing for a freak out of epic proportions. _Dammit_ , Sam thinks to himself as he tries to pull away from Dean without disturbing him. Inch by careful inch he climbs out of the bed and stands on his feet.

There’s a wash cloth on the floor, still a little damp to the touch and Sam really doesn’t remember being the one to go get it. Head clearing up he studies Dean curled up on the bed, covers forgotten. Sam picks up the cloth, takes a peek at his cell to check he doesn’t have any missed calls—there’s none, but Sam sees it’s the next day. His stomach grumbles. Sam laughs quietly to himself, a slight manic edge to it, and heads to the bathroom. He needs a shower and then he needs to find breakfast.

And then, then they’ll talk. Or so he hopes—he hopes he didn’t misread Dean last night when he begged for Sam to fuck him into the mattress.

In the shower, Sam’s thoughts swirl around all the looks, all the touches over the years, from about the time he was sixteen, to last night. Thinks about the times he caught Dean looking at him, and it wasn’t with worry, though that happened plenty.

When Sam is finally ready to head out and grab breakfast, Dean is still asleep on the bed. Sam hopes Dean doesn’t bolt while he’s out.

***

Unsticking his eyes, Dean blinks hard as he hears the rumble of Sam’s bike as it takes off. Shifting onto the backs of his arms—and even that pressure makes him wince as his ass reminds him what happened the day before—Dean spots a note on the table. Gingerly, Dean climbs out of the bed, trying to ignore the burn in his ass, as he picks up the handwritten note that tells him Sam’s gone to get breakfast.

Dean prays that’s true as he troops into the bathroom to clean up. He takes his time, as he’s pretty sure Sam’s giving them both time to think before they have to talk. Because he knows talking is on the cards—there’s no way it isn’t. _Really fucked this one up_ , Dean thinks for a moment and then clears his throat. He’s glad John’s not around to see what they’ve become, but at the same time his Dad asked him to kill Sam if he became a monster. So Dean’s not sure which is more messed up.

But as Dean finishes his shower and goes to brush his teeth, he can’t help admitting to himself that he’s wanted something to finally happen since Sam left Stanford and joined him on the road again. He’s been drawn to Sam for some time, and he knows it’s all kinds of fucked up. But there’s few people out there in the world who know what it’s like, what’s out there waiting for everyone in the shadows.

Clean and dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, Dean tries to get comfortable at the table and wakes Sam’s laptop out of its hibernation mode. He looks at the open windows and starts jotting down some notes as to where Edgar Fears lives. _Might as well be useful_ , Dean thinks, _hella a lot more productive than having a personal crisis_.

As he scribbles down street names and house numbers, Dean thinks about the case and wonders if Vance had intended for the two of them to take enough of a dose to get themselves killed. Dean supposes it’s highly likely Vance might have, but he hasn’t so far gotten the suspicious murderer type vibe from Vance. Now, Axle on the other hand, doesn’t fill Dean with any sense of warm fuzzies. Plus Axle had been the one arguing with Fears the previous day.

For a second, Dean considers calling Bobby to see if he can dig anything up on Fears, but he realizes he can’t talk to him just yet. At least not so soon after the night before. The guilt bubbles up inside for a few moments and then fizzles away as Dean finishes cross referencing his notes with some of the windows Sam has open. Looking at the legal pad he’s been writing on, Dean’s pretty sure that Fears lives two miles outside of Red Bluff, on the edge of some woods.

Stomach rumbling, Dean tries to concentrate on figuring out what they’re likely going to be walking into.

_Demon summoning via consumption of magical drug—check._

Dean flicks through a book open on the table. It’s on demon lore and magic. He stops on a page discussing Warlocks.

_Warlock summoning a demon to… uh…_ Dean looks at Sam’s piles of notes. _Summoning a demon that can damn the souls of the users and share power_. _The demon is how he gets his power_. Dean thinks back on his experiences of Meg and Yellow Eyes. _Both liked things messy, so a demon carving some poor soul up before dragging it to hell? If that’s a thing that happens_ , Dean considers, _that’s probably what’s going on here_.

Dean looks up from the clutter of notes and books, eyes skirting past the laptop, and spots the burner they found. He swipes it and powers it on. Once it finishes booting up, he goes to the contacts and finds only one number there. Whoever had the number would likely get suspicious if it was called from this cell, though Dean could hide his caller ID if he wanted.

_Still, it would be a big neon sign we’re coming for them, if it’s Fears or someone from the MC._ Dean thinks of Axle again and gets the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that they might have to handle dealing with humans rather than monsters.

A rumble of a bike engine sounds from outside and Dean gets up and takes a look through the blinds. It’s Sam, with the Coleman cooler strapped to the back of his bike.

***

“So Fears lives there, huh?” Sam says casually, not quite able to meet Dean’s eyes now he’s awake and up and about.

Dean swallows the mouthful of breakfast taco he’s chewing. “Yeah, but it’s probably suicide confronting a Warlock on his own turf.”

“But he might have something that’ll help us, I dunno, like deactivate what drug supply is out there already. Some altar we can smash, y’know?” Sam takes a sip of coffee from the Styrofoam cup he brought back and shudders a little at its bitterness on his tongue.

Dean doesn’t reply to that with words, just grunts and Sam knows that they’ve reached the point where they need to talk. He sets his coffee down and finishes off the last of his own breakfast taco and wipes his fingers on a napkin.

“So,” Sam starts, “last night.”

Dean coughs lightly, clearing his throat. He sets his breakfast down and Sam looks up, meeting his brother’s eyes for the first time today.

“Yeah… I…” Dean rubs at his face.

Sam glances up at the ceiling and the stained tiles there and then back to Dean. “Look… I…

“Wanted that for so long!” they both babble at the same time.

Sam’s cheeks heat with the admittance and Dean’s mouth hangs open like his brain has just wandered off to parts unknown.

Striving to get some oxygen into his lungs, Sam takes a couple of lungfuls before he says, “You wanted that too?”

Dean manages a nod. Sam reaches out across the table, careful of the books and notes and their coffees. He takes Dean’s left hand in his right and squeezes. Dean squeezes back, then laces their fingers together. A weight Sam didn’t know he’d been carrying, lifts from his being and he relaxes into the contact.

“We can… sort through our feelings and crap after the case is done,” Dean says, voice thick. “But right now, we need to figure out how we’re going to take on a friggin’ Warlock.”

“Okay… I hope the MC aren’t massively attached to the revenue coming from their supply,” Sam points out as he strokes his thumb against Dean’s hand.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” Dean lets go of Sam’s hand and picks up the last piece of his breakfast taco.

Then Sam’s cell starts to ring. He answers it to find Felix yelling down the line in a panic.

Chapter 9

A handful of motorcycles are lined up outside the clubhouse. Dean starts to hear the shouting the second he cuts his bike’s engine. Axle, Vance and a voice that’s likely Fears’ are shouting the place down. Dean climbs off his bike and pulls his pistol from the back of his trousers. Beside him, Sam does the same. The two of them slowly stalk towards the club entrance.

Felix had tried to give them the lowdown before his call had been abruptly cut off. Dean hopes the guy is okay, but his main focus is on making sure Fears doesn’t hurt anyone else.

Dean signals to Sam, and Sam circles around the back of the large cabin-like structure, heading for a fire exit they’d noted on their first visit. Dean starts counting down, knowing Sam’s doing the same as he gets into position. He reaches forty and then rushes in through the open door, as he does, the sound of Sam crashing through the fire door draws the attention of those assembled inside.

Fears has Hayley, arm wrapped across her neck, a handgun wavering by her head, while Axle has his gun trained on Fears. Meanwhile Felix is sprawled out on the wooden floorboards, hopefully just unconscious. Vance has his gun trained on Fears. They all look over to Sam crashing into the club, and Fears gun twitches away from Hayley in response and towards the new threat.

Dean takes his shot.

His aim is true and the shot floors Fears, hitting him square on the side of his head. He drops like a lead balloon, taking Hayley with him as she starts screaming and everyone else starts shouting at once. Dean stows his gun and runs over to Hayley, ignoring the men as Sam heads to Felix to see if he’s okay.

Five minutes later, everyone’s drinking shots of whiskey and trying to get some semblance of calm.

“That was one hell of a shot,” Axle compliments Dean, slapping him hard on the back. Dean winces as the force vibrates through parts of him that have yet to recover from the night before.

“Looked like you needed the help,” Dean replies, knocking back the last of his drink. “We’ll take care of the body.”

“Is it over?” Felix asks the question directed at Dean and Sam.

Dean shares a look with Sam and then turns back to Felix. “Well, there’s the small matter of the supply out there and the demon still feeding off users.”

“Demon?!” Axle and Vance say in unison, while Felix and Hayley look at Dean and Sam like they’ve grown two heads each.

“That’s how Jane Whitney and that couple died,” Sam says calmly. “We’re gonna head over to Fears’ place and see if we can do something to stop anything else happening to the rest of the users.”

“You might have some unhappy customers come morning.” Dean shrugs.

Axle stands up and takes a couple of steps into the middle of the room, surveying the clubhouse as he does. “Fears didn’t want us to stop dealing for him.”

“That what today’s and yesterday’s argument was about?” Dean queries as he watches Axle.

“Pretty much,” Vance offers from beside them. “Say, if demons are real…”

“Ghosts,” Dean offers.

“Vampires,” Sam says.

“Wendigos.”

“Women in White and werewolves.”

“Pretty much anything you can think of, bar aliens, dragons and Big Foot, probably is real.” Dean pours himself another shot.

“And you two, what, hunt these things?” Axle asks.

“We do what we can,” Dean replies and knocks back the whole shot, shivering at the burn of the amber liquid.

“You’re not really MC, are you?” Vance asks.

Dean and Sam push away from the bar. Dean can’t quite tell which way, one of two, the situation is about to go.

“No,” Dean admits.

“Doesn’t matter,” Axle declares. “So long as you don’t wear your cuts outside of dealing with us. You’re good people.” He hurries off towards the chapel and Dean wonders just what the older guy is planning.

“Here,” Sam says, offering Vance a card with one of their numbers on. “If strange stuff starts happening. You give us a call and we’ll come handle it.”

Vance nods and Axle comes back into the room with two more brown envelopes that look suspiciously stuffed full of cash.

“Our treasurer is gonna curse me out, but here, for your travels. I’m sure you don’t exactly make anything doing this job.” Axle hands them the envelopes.

“Much appreciated.” Dean smiles. “Okay, we’ll take care of him and then go finish handling this business. Will give Felix a call once things are done.”

***

Sam watches Fears' house through a pair of binoculars. His body lays burning several miles away in an abandoned quarry, where it won’t start any fires. The place, a simple log cabin, looks innocuous enough and he can’t see any signs of life.

“Think it’s safe?” Dean asks.

“Only one way to find out. Though we better be careful. Could be booby trapped.” Sam stows the binoculars and climbs off the bike.

“How will we know if we’ve stopped the drug’s effects?” Dean asks as he gets off his bike.

“Try some,” Sam suggests as he checks his gun. He also pulls a bag of salt from the saddles on his bag and checks over an exorcism in a notebook.

Dean grabs a couple of cans of spray paint, a flask of holy water and a crowbar. “So what, no trying to get each other’s rocks off and the stuff’s safe?”

“How about no demon being summoned? Let’s try that for a safe standard.”

“I don’t like it,” Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes and takes the safety off his handgun. “You don’t have to. We just have to make sure there’s no more demon.”

Dean mutters something under his breath, but Sam can’t find it in himself to worry that much. He pushes a lock of stray hair behind his ear and heads up towards the cabin with Dean watching his six.

He reaches the front door and unlocks it with a key that he found on Fears. The door opens inwards and Sam stays low, keeping an eye out for any traps—like a shotgun wired at head height. There’s nothing.

Slowly, he eases his way into the cabin and sets down the bag of salt he’s carrying. The front door opens into a generous living space with open plan kitchen and living room, a breakfast bar dividing the space and a small dining table beside it, joining the living room. He steps inside enough for Dean to come in after him.

Stepping into the space proper, Sam looks towards the fireplace in the living room and then instead of a coffee table between the couch and fireplace, there’s an altar. The altar is laid on top of a circular cut of black velvet with a small round table, stained black, on top. There’s a bronze bowl on the center of the table and several black candles. A bronze goblet seated on the altar looks to be stained with blood and there are tiny bones scattered around the table’s edge.

“What did I say?” Sam smirks, eyeing baggies of the drug stocked along the mantelpiece above the fireplace.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Dean stows his gun and then starts running salt along the door frame and the windows. Sam picks up his bag of salt and starts doing the same, running some along the fireplace. If the demon shows because of the altar’s destruction, there’s no point in making things easy for it. They both work a couple of simple Devil’s Traps in some likely spots and then stow their gear near the front door.

Dean walks up the altar. “Ready?”

Sam nods.

Dean picks up a crowbar he took from the saddle bag on his bike and smashes it into the round table. The bones skitter in all directions as the bowl and goblet clang to the wooden floorboards. The candles roll away and within seconds the altar is no more.

A gust of wind howls into the cabin and Sam turns to find a strange man in the doorway, eyes black and a cruel smile on his face. The guy the demon is possessing can’t be any older than thirty, his dirty blond hair sticking up in all sorts of directions and at odds with the fine cut brown suit he’s wearing.

“Can’t get the servants these days,” the demon notes, not taking a step further inside despite having blown away the salt by the front door.

Sam takes a breath and starts chanting an exorcism. The same one they once used on Meg. “ _Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino, qui fertis super caelum, caeli ad Orientem, Ecce dabit voci Suae, vocem virtutis, tribuite virtutem Deo…_ ”

The demon takes a step forward as black smoke starts to spill from its mouth. It’s eyes are pure fury and hatred, a snarl rallies on its lips. Dean edges forward, but keeps back as Sam continues to chant the exorcism. Then the demon steps over a rug and then tries to take another step out of it and can’t.

More black smoke pours out of the demon’s mouth and the Devil’s Trap holds the demon fast as Sam tries to keep his Latin enunciation clear, but fast.

“ _Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias, libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos. Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos_ ,” Sam continues.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!” the demon howls at them, but Sam doesn’t give it the time of day to let its jibe enter his thoughts. He keeps chanting.

Growling now, the demon bends down and yanks up the carpet, it focuses a hand towards the red spray paint Devil’s Trap and starts a chant of his own. Sam tries to ignore him as he continues through the exorcism.

The cabin shakes and there’s a whiff of smoke as part of the Devil’s Trap is burned away. Sam eyes the demon warily as it starts taking steps towards Dean.

“ _Benedictus Deus. Gloria Patri!_ ” Sam shouts and the black smoke finishes pulsing out of the demon’s mouth and leaves a singed circle on the cabin floor.

Gasping for breath, Sam slips to his knees and tries to breathe. His throat is dry and his voice cracks as he asks Dean for water.

A bottle appears from somewhere and Sam greedily gulps it down as Dean checks over the guy that the demon rode in on. The guy’s unconscious on the floor.

“He’ll live,” Dean declares and then heads back over to Sam. “You okay?”

“I will be,” he says and smiles up at Dean. “I suppose we better check the product?”

It’s Dean’s turn to roll his eyes as he swipes a baggy off the mantelpiece. He heads over to the breakfast bar and Sam watches in fascination as Dean sets out several lines of the brown crystalline stuff and rolls up a twenty.

“Here goes nothing,” Dean says as he bends over the lines of the drug and snorts one, then two and then three lines of the stuff. He stands back up and rubs furiously at his nose, eyes starting to water.

“How do you feel?” Sam asks.

“Like I just snorted three lines of sugar! Fuck this shit burns!”


	10. Epilogue

Ahead of them lies the empty highway and the last of the summer sun. Dean enjoys the way the breeze is playing through his hair and the way Sam is beside him on the bench seat, head resting on Dean’s shoulder as he sleeps, an arm wrapped around Dean’s middle. Even with the window open, Sam manages to be a human furnace.

The tape in the stereo, _Let It Bleed_ ,clicks back over to its A side and the start of “Gimme Shelter” by the Rolling Stones starts to play. Dean huffs out a breath as Mick Jagger’s voice starts to sing and he hums along with the song.

He’s pretty sure as he drives them towards Illinois, their Dad’s old dog tags clutched in Sam’s hand, that the two of them are going to be okay. _So long as we stick together and don’t sweat the small stuff_ , Dean decides as he drives.

Dean is less sure in what Sam hopes to achieve in visiting their Mom’s grave, but he’s willing to give it a chance if that’s what Sam wants.

No one else knows yet, bar the demon, what’s happening between him and Sam. And as far as Dean’s concerned, it isn’t anyone else’s business.

Sniffing, Dean looks over to Sam and presses a kiss against the top of the Sasquatch’s head and then turns his attention back to the road as “Love In Vain” starts to play. Guitars twanging over the car’s speaker as the slow track plays.

There’s almost no secrets between him and Sam now, but Dean tries not to think much on what John told him before he died. He can’t think about that, because Sam’s his everything. His reason for being. His every breath. And the one keeping him together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Kudos and comments appreciated. [Don't forget to check out emberthrace's art post!](https://emberthrace.livejournal.com/2398.html)
> 
> You can find me on Pillowfort at [dreamsfromthebunker](https://www.pillowfort.social/dreamsfromthebunker), Dreamwidth at [hit_the_books](https://hit-the-books.dreamwidth.org/), Tumblr at [hitthebooksposts](https://hitthebooksposts.tumblr.com/), and Twitter at [dreamsftbunker](https://twitter.com/dreamsftbunker).


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